His Angel
by High-Functioning Ginger
Summary: Every night he picks a piece of Sherlock's clothing and wraps it around himself before going to bed. He lays there and pretends that the warmth; the scent clinging to him comes from Sherlock gently holding him. Angsty one-shot. Post-Fall


_**AN: So this is a revised version of Arms of an Angel that I published about 2 months ago on here. In re-reading it I though it was a little short and didn't quite have the vibe I wanted to capture. So I'm reposting this "enhanced" version. Let me know what you think!**_

**Disclaimer: I'm praying to Santa to bring me the rights to Sherlock. Until he does so I own nothing.**

It's so cold here. So dark and empty in this hotel room.

Desolation seems to seep from the very walls. Though perhaps it's him that's the source of the melancholy.

He's staying here for a while; probably two weeks. Maybe less, maybe more.

He can't go back hom- to the flat right now. It isn't home anymore. Not without him. The only reason it ever was home was because of him.

Because that's where the two of them could exist with each other in contentment. Where they could simply be; without the world hovering over their shoulders. It's where he learned Sherlock; where Sherlock learned him.

The one place they both allowed their walls to lower; for each other only.

It's been two days. Two days since the funeral. That was somehow worse than his death.

For John at least. He'd hated it; well he would have, if he had the energy to feel anything at all.

Everyone dressed in black; standing somberly in a quiet crowd. The clouds hanging heavy like their grief; until the weight became too much and raindrops leaked out; like unwelcome tears.

People who thought they knew him, but never really did. John was almost angry with them for daring to come to his funeral. For daring to pretend that they ever knew, that they ever understood Sherlock. But he wasn't angry. Partially because he simply didn't have the energy. But mainly because he could take comfort in the fact that Sherlock at least had people at his funeral. People did care. They did believe. It was weak medicine for the wounds he was nursing, but he would take what he could get.

Then there was that damn priest; talking about an afterlife that Sherlock didn't believe in. Saying that there is a reason for everything and even death is god's will. John would really like to have a little heart-to-heart with God if this was part of his plans. Of course he didn't believe a word of what the priest said.

A reason for his death? Sure, there was a reason. The media and betraying friends drove him over the edge. But he can't very well say that at the funeral.

He just had to stand there watching silently, feeling an icy layer forming over his heart at the bleak empty words offered over Sherlock's casket.

And then when he was actually buried, John honestly thought that was the end for him. For some reason seeing him lowered into the ground was worse than watching him crumple onto it days before. Because it was so final.

He hadn't understood it; hadn't believed it, when he watched Sherlock spreading his arms like broad black wings; leaning forward. Flying..._falling._

He wanted it to be a mistake. He recalls when he saw the body lying there, blood pooling like a macabre halo, the first words to cross his mind where _"This has to be some sick joke."_

Sherlock couldn't be dead. It simply wasn't possible. That's what he thought and during the days between the death and the funeral he found himself looking for Sherlock. He almost texted him once, purely out of habit.

But this was real. The cold marble with gleaming etchings of a name. The sharp scent of the freshly dug grave mingled with the soft aroma of flowers left by the fellow mourners. And standing there as the others were leaving, rereading the gravestone for the hundredth time, that's when it really hit him.

This was happening. This was real. Too real.

That was when the weight of bitter reality brought the fierce soldier to his knees. Figuratively. In reality he stood even straighter; locking himself against the crushing wave of sorrow as it washed over him like a black hurricane.

Is he cursed; he sometimes wonders. First the war; destroying any chance at a normal life. Giving him a bizarre thirst for danger. Then tossing him back into the civilian world; wounded in ways that had nothing to do with his medical discharge. Then Sherlock came along; dragging him out of his depression and halfway across London on mad criminal chases. Sherlock gave him his life back; made it even better than before, then destroyed it with a single step. Destroyed him.

No one else knows this though. They know he is grieving of course; that he'd just lost a friend. They don't know that he's irreparably broken. He hasn't made a display; won't dissolve into tears and sobs. He just stood silently and saluted Sherlock before turning away.

The shift in him was silent. It was as though he'd just shattered quietly into a million pieces and he was going to spend the rest of his life trying to put those pieces back together. The bits of their life together just floated around inside him; coming to the surface far too often. Lingering constantly in his peripheral.

The ghost of his life before, his happiness floated just beyond his reach, taunting him. Anything could trigger the pain. Whenever he got a text or made a single cup of tea. When he passed an Italian restaurant or saw someone wearing a blue scarf. Even when he heard sirens screaming past.

It hurt. Everything hurt. He couldn't go anywhere or do anything without a reminder of him appearing. Burning, torturing him. Beckoning for him to follow. And the only thing that kept him from doing so was Sherlock; or what was left of him anyway.

He couldn't go back to the flat, not yet, but Ms. Hudson offered to collect of few things for him. Although she would like him to be there, it would be a comfort to her; she also understood why he couldn't be. She knew she couldn't do anything for him, except offer a helping hand.

He gave her a list of some of his basic necessities. Some of his clothes, computer, etc. And Sherlock's clothes; which were a necessity in their own right. They still smelled like him. That unmistakable crisp smoky aroma clung within their stitches. His very presence seemed woven within the threads, as though John could breathe him in when he pressed his face into the article and inhaled deeply.

This is how he survived.

Every night he would select a different article of clothing and wrap it around himself before going to bed. He would lie there and pretend that the warmth; the scent clinging to him came from Sherlock gently holding him.

He refused to think about what would happen when the scent eventually faded. He just imagines Sherlock's strong wiry arms wrapped around him; holding him close, keeping him safe. Comforting him, loving him. It's all he has.

For a few moments it lifts the weight of the grief and memories; which have settled on him like wreckage from an explosion. For a few moments there is beauty surrounding him. It lasts just long enough for him to drift off to sleep.

And he does; in the arms of his angel.

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**KP**


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